Dark Horse
by usa123
Summary: Olympic AU. Nationally-ranked sprinter Bucky Barnes tries out for the Olympic Track team, hoping to represent his country at the Games next summer. Not long after arriving, he meets his main competition: Steve Rogers, a scrawny kid from Brooklyn who posts a better 100-meter time than Bucky does. Will the two remain strictly rivals or can a friendship develop as well? Cameos galore.


**A/N: I never ran track, nor was I ever in the Olympics, so I'm basing this fic on what I've found on the Internet and my good friend's experience in the Junior Olympic pipeline. If something is egregiously wrong, feel free to let me know and I'll see what I can do to fix it.**

 **A/N 2: A _dark horse_ (in sports) is a little-known, unexpectedly successful entrant.**

* * *

Olympic hopeful Bucky Barnes stepped onto the red track inside Hayward Field and paused for a brief second, letting the history of the place wash over him. Hayward Field had held six Olympic Track and Field trials and six USATF championships over the years, and had seen countless athletes walk away disappointed, when they were outraced for a medal or Olympic team selection. However, it had also been witness to some of the greatest races and moments of exuberance when a small number of hopefuls achieved their goals. Bucky was hoping with every fiber of his being that he'd be one of the ones who was smiling at the end of the next four days.

His fantasy was cut short as someone rammed into him on the way to the bleachers, jarring him from his daydream. He scowled but didn't say anything to the retreating form. Instead, he adjusted the duffel bag hanging over his shoulder and ran a hand through his slicked back hair, pushing his bangs out of his face so he could search the stands for any of his friends from the pipeline.

"Barnes!" he heard and quickly turned around to see Gabe Jones, one of the fastest milers west of the Mississippi approaching.

"Hey Gabe," Bucky held out his hand and, after Jones had shaken it, pulled the miler into a hug, clapping him enthusiastically on the back. "How's it going?"

"Good, man. It's all good," Jones enthused as he pulled away.

"How's Texas treating you? Wrangled any bulls yet?"

"You know there's more to Texas than just rodeos…"

"Riiiiight," Bucky drawled. "All those chainsaw massacres."

Gabe elbowed Bucky hard in the side. "How's UCLA, Barnes?" he shot back. "All beaches and gorgeous women?"

Bucky thought for a moment then nodded. "Pretty much."

Gabe rolled his eyes. "How long you been here?" he asked, eager to change subjects.

"Just landed," Bucky groused, hefting his duffel bag as proof. "Had to take an econ exam this morning or I'd have been here last night."

"Poor baby."

"You seen anyone else yet?" Bucky asked as they walked towards the concrete staircase. He was referring to the group of friends they had made at training camp last winter, when the hotel had overbooked the rooms, and most of the athletes had ended up in five-person rooms with two queen sized beds and a rollaway. Luckily, he and Jones had been stuck with decent guys and they had all stayed in touch, which was how Bucky knew that everyone else from Room 237 had posted the required qualifying times in their respective events in order to be invited to the Trials today.

"I ran into Dugan and Falsworth earlier," Gabe was saying. "They should be down soo—"

"Look who it is!" a loud voice boomed.

"Speak of the devil," Gabe muttered.

Bucky grinned and spun around, throwing out his arms wide in the process. "Dugan!"

"Barney!" Timothy Dugan, nicknamed Dum-Dum, was a shot putter from Tulsa. He wrapped a thick arm around Bucky's neck and tucked it against his side, like a football, as he rubbed Bucky's head affectionately with his knuckles. Bucky did his best to free himself, but Dugan was a lot bigger and bulkier than he was. After a few more seconds of struggling, Bucky threw an elbow into Dugan's solar plexus and squirmed out of the Irishman's hold.

"It's Barnes," he spat as he flattened down his hair. "B-A-R-N-E-S. Barney is a purple dinosaur."

"Not seeing a difference from where I'm standing," Dugan quipped as he rubbed his abdomen, a good-natured grin on his face. Before Bucky could snap off a retort, Dum-Dum looked over his shoulder and hurriedly stepped backwards.

"Excuse my manners. James Buchanan Barney, this is Jacques Dernier. He's an exchange student from France; staying with us for the semester. Turns out he has dual citizenship, which makes him eligible to compete for the US of A."

"Hello," Dernier said softly, with just a touch of an accent, as he extended his hand to Bucky.

"Nice to meet you," Bucky took the man's hand in his and pumped it twice. "What event?" he asked as they began walking up the stairs that led to the bleachers.

"Javelin."

"Very nice."

"I started off in archery, but my mom made me switch after she found me tying fireworks to my arrows then firing them at the neighbors."

Bucky snorted, but it was more because of the horrified expression on Gabe's face, than the story itself. "Did they deserve it?"

"They chased my dog into the canal. She can't swim."

The grin dropped off Bucky's face. "I'm sorry man."

Now at the top of the stairs, he slid into the first row, leaving enough room for six or seven others, before dropping onto the bleachers and resting his arms on the railing in front of them.

"Don't be. I wasn't far behind the—" Dernier added what sounded like a few choice words in French, before returning to English, "—so I saved her before she drowned."

"That's good to hear."

"Hey guys!" The group turned to see James Falsworth entering the track, a long fiberglass pole held above his head. He turned the corner into the stadium a bit too quickly and almost took out a gaggle of employees, who hurriedly ducked for cover.

"Sorry," he shouted over his shoulder as he more carefully made his way over to where the group was now sitting and dropped the pole onto the track, to the visible relief of the surrounding competitors.

"What's happening, Falsworth?" Bucky asked as he and Jones simultaneously reached over the rail and grabbed one of the pole vaulter's outstretched hands, giving him the boost he needed to grab the bottom stadium railing and haul himself into the stands.

"Not much Jimmy," Falsworth said as he sat next to Bucky and dusted off his hands. "Not much at all."

"Don't call me Jimmy," Bucky shot back. "What is it with you people? Can't call a man by his given name?"

"When you turn into a man, we'll consider it," Dum-Dum replied, batting his eyelashes coquettishly.

The group dissolved into laughter.

"Hilarious. All of you. Real comedians," Barnes muttered under his breath. He turned away from his friends and regaled himself by watching people stream into the stadium, until the laughing behind him subsided. Most of the competition was tall and built with lean muscle but one kid stood out from the rest: he looked no more than thirteen and couldn't have weighed more than one hundred pounds soaking wet, judging by how loosely the small clothes hung on his frame.

"Hey," Bucky leaned over the railing to put himself in the kid's field of vision. "I think you're in the wrong place. Parents and siblings are meeting in the conference room."

The beanpole looked up at Bucky, his blue eyes wide. "This is the athlete's meeting, right?"

Bucky nodded.

"Then I'm in the right place." He opened the folder he was holding and held out two sheets of paper, each with a number printed on it.

"What event?"

"100-meter dash."

Bucky grinned: that was one of the races he was competing in. "How fast?"

The kid hesitated for a moment, then answered, "9.87."

Bucky let out a low whistle. The stringbean had him beat by almost a-tenth of a second. "No shit."

The kid moved his head back and forth in an awkward combination between a nod and a shake. "Short distances are my thing. I'm awful at the mile."

Jones took this opportunity to lean over the rail as well. "Good thing. Saves me some competition. I'm Gabe Jones, by the way." He held out his hand and mimed shaking the kid's from the distance. "Feel free to ignore whatever comes out of this guy's mouth," he continued, tilting his head at Bucky.

"Steve Rogers." The kid repeated the gesture. "And I will."

"Your sass is bigger than you are," Bucky muttered half-heartedly.

"Has to be to put up with guys like you."

Bucky gasped so loudly that he caught the attention of the next section of bleachers, clutched at his heart dramatically, then fell limply against Dum-Dum. "You wound me," he panted, as if he really was injured.

"You'll get over it."

"Once again, we apologize for his antics," Jones cut in diplomatically before Barnes could reply. "So where you from, Rogers?"

"Brooklyn."

Dum-Dum elbowed Jones in the side. "Everyone who heard him speak knows that."

Jones rubbed his ribcage and retaliated by knocking Dum-Dum's bowler hat off with a quick swipe of his hand. "I was just tryin' ta be nice!" he shouted as Dugan practically dove off the bleachers to retrieve his hat. When he'd located it, two rows back, he immediately began examining it for any tears or scrapes, no matter how minor.

Suddenly, a shrill whistle cut through the air and the low chatter that had filled the arena abruptly ceased.

"Do I have your attention?" a dark-skinned man said from the middle of the track. He was standing on the second place podium to make himself visible from all angles and was leaning heavily on a cane. He also had an eyepatch over his left eye. "Good. My name is Nick Fury—"

"You're not the Nick Fury," someone gasped. "Fastest 800-meters in Olympic history?"

Fury nodded, though there was a touch of nostalgia in his expression that disappeared almost as quickly as it'd arrived. "That was a long time ago. Before my accident." He scanned the group of hopefuls and shook his head, leaning both hands on his cane in front of him. "But they still think I'm qualified enough to teach you young'uns something. So let's get to it.

"Welcome to the trials. If you don't know which ones, you're probably in the wrong place." He paused to allow the few uneasy chuckles to finish before he proceeded. "You were handed a copy of the schedule for the next four days when you checked in. Show up fifteen minutes before your race. Any later than that, and you don't run. No exceptions. Are there any questions?"

A few athletes tentatively raised their hands.

"Then you can see Maria Hill," Fury pointed over his shoulder to a woman in a well-fitting track suit who was standing behind him, a clipboard full of papers in her grasp.

He nodded curtly at her as he hobbled off the platform and out of the stadium, leaving the athletes sitting quietly in the stands, waiting for his return. In the past, the pre-race meetings were on the order of hours long, as the event director went over each and every aspect of the uniform, curfew, hotel etiquette and more in excruciating detail.

"You can leave now," Maria finally said, after looking up from her paperwork to see everyone was still seated. Within seconds, the dull roar was back as the athletes clamored over each other to reach the stairs.

"Well that was different," Bucky deadpanned. Then he too stood up and hefted his overfilled duffel over his shoulder. "Guess I should get checked in my hotel room. See who I'm rooming with."

"We'll go with you," Dum-Dum instantly offered, rising to his feet.

"I think not." Bucky rested his elbow on Dum-Dum's shoulder, keeping him from fully standing. "Last time you ate all the chocolate out of the mini-fridge and stuck me with the bill. You know how expensive that stuff is?"

Dum-Dum shook his head innocently.

"A whole month's salary, that's how expensive. My mom _flipped_ when she saw the charges on her credit card—"

"But I didn't eat all of them," Dum-Dum cut in, flashing Barnes his most winning smile. "I left you the Milky Ways."

"No one likes Milky Ways."

Dernier tentatively raised his hand. "I do."

Bucky let out a long-suffering sigh. "Well then you can go steal Dum-Dum's. Mine are staying in the fridge where they belong," Bucky huffed. He lithely hurried down the stairs, cutting through the crowd like a professional.

At the bottom of the stairs, he turned to face the group, who were just being herded onto the staircase. "Tell you what. I'll go check in, drop off my stuff, then let's go eat. You guys pick the place. I'll meet you there. See if you can find Morita while you're at it." Jim Morita was the last man who had roomed with them at training camp. He was a college senior from Fresno who ran the 10,000 meters.

"He's getting in late tonight, but we'll see if we can swing it," Falsworth replied as he and the rest of the group finally hit the track.

Barnes turned toward the exit and saw Rogers walking with a tall, blond woman, who had to be in her late twenties. "Let's invite Steve," Bucky suggested to the approaching group.

"And by that, you mean, Steve's friend?" Falsworth quipped knowingly.

"She can come too." Bucky grinned widely and hurried to catch up to his new acquaintance. "Hey, Rogers, wanna get dinner with us?" he asked, slowing to a stop just behind the smaller man.

The kid jumped slightly and quickly glanced over his shoulder. When he saw it was Barnes, he frowned. "No offense, buster, but I don't even know your name."

"Lucky for us that's easily fixed. I'm James Barnes. Friends call me Bucky."

"Well, James—"

"Let me stop you right there," Bucky held up his hand, traffic cop-style. "We've met. Thus you're now a friend. So you can call me Bucky." His words were punctuated with wild gesticulations as he tried to illustrate his train of thought.

"James is fine," Steve said shortly. Clearly he wasn't over Bucky's earlier comment that he didn't belong.

"And is this your sister?" Bucky asked, taking a few long strides so he was now walking next to the gorgeous woman.

Steve groaned loudly. "Let's go Sharon."

"I'm his chaperone," the woman—Sharon—replied.

"Chaperone? He get into a lot of trouble by his lonesome?" he asked the woman as he shot her his most charming grin.

"He's not old enough to fill out the paperwork. He's still a minor for another month," Sharon explained.

"You're seventeen?" Bucky turned back to Steve, unable to disguise his surprise.

Steve's eyes flashed. "Yeah. I'm small for my age. Get over it," he snapped defensively.

Bucky shook his head quickly and hurriedly tried to backtrack. "Sorry. I'm just from very stereotypical German family. Big hands, big feet, big—"

"Bucky!" Jones quickly interjected.

"Bones, Gabe. Big bones." Bucky rolled his eyes. "Everything is dirty to you. Get your mind out of the gutter." He turned back to the woman. "You shoulda seen pictures of my grandpa. Built like a Mack truck."

"Good for him," she managed and Bucky saw her desperately biting her lip to keep from laughing out loud.

"We haven't been formally introduced. I'm Bucky Barnes," he said to her, holding out his hand.

"Sharon Carter." After a second to compose herself, she shook his hand.

"The pleasure is mine," he waggled his eyebrows at her.

"Well that's enough of that," Steve interrupted with a huff **.** "Can we please go check into our rooms, Sharon?"

"I think that's a good idea," her gaze lingered on Bucky for a moment longer before she followed her charge out of the stadium.

"You're shameless," Jones sighed as he purposefully ran into Bucky, knocking him off balance.

"Yes I am," Bucky quickly righted himself and followed his friends out of the stadium. "Ten bucks says I score her number before I leave."

Everyone but Dernier shook their heads collectively, all too familiar with the way women swarmed around Bucky.

"You're no fun," he whined petulantly as he followed his friends to the hotel.

Sure enough, Steve ran a 9.90 mile, edging out Hodge to finish first in the heat. It was a more than a little surprising, given his size, but what amazed Bucky the most was the way he moved: Steve had run almost completely vertically, not leaning forward at all. In addition, he bounced when he ran, as if he had springs under the balls of his feet, which should have slowed him down dramatically, but somehow didn't.

"That was some race, Rogers," Bucky grudgingly admitted from the sidelines, where he was warming up for his 200 meter heat.

"Thanks," Steve panted, intertwining his fingers behind his head. Bucky paused politely, waiting for Steve's breathing to slow before they continued this conversation, but after a few moments, Rogers' chest was still heaving and he still sounded like he was about to asphyxiate.

"You okay, man?" Bucky asked, unable to stop the concern from creeping into his voice.

"Yeah," Steve forced himself to take a deep breath and almost choked on it as it tried to escape prematurely. "Just asthma."

"That's sounds like more than 'just asthma'. You look like you're going to pass out."

Steve took a few more gulping breaths, then dropped his hands to his hips. "I'm fine. But now you know why I can't run distances."

"You're lucky you can run the 100-meters!"

Steve nodded. "Modern medicine is amazing."

As he took another deep breath and was able to successfully hold it, a voice crackled over the megaphone. "Heat C, take your position."

"That's you," Steve said on his exhale, his bright red in his cheeks beginning to fade. "Good luck, James," he said honestly, as he began to walk toward the stadium stands where Sharon was grinning widely and holding two thumbs-ups.

"It's Bucky!" Barnes shouted, "But thanks Rogers. Appreciate it."

"You're going to need it!"

"You're a punk, Rogers," Bucky called as he jogged over to the starting line, but the kid was far out of earshot.

* * *

Bucky ended up second in his heat, which in the end meant he just missed the cut off for the 100-meter dash alternate. Gilmore Hodge, a meaty fellow from the Midwest (no one cared to speak to him long enough to find out exactly where), had ran a faster race by two-tenths of a second. Later on in the trials, Bucky raced fast enough to secure a spot on the 200 meter squad, so he wasn't too heartbroken by being shut out of the100 meters, though he did wish it was to a better fellow than Hodge, the bully.

All athletes and alternates were then required to attend Training Week six months later, where the upcoming athletes were put through the paces by professionals to ensure they were on track (pun intended, the invite assured them). Bucky was scheduled to work individually with a man named Sam Wilson, who had collected his fair share of hardware at the games back in his day, before reporting for relay practice that evening.

The day before Training Week started, he was maneuvering his way out of the hotel's antiquated revolving door, when he spotted none other than Steve Rogers in the lobby. The kid looked like he'd grown an inch or two, and his face looked less gaunt than Bucky remembered it; but then again he'd been up for almost twenty-six hours straight finishing class work so he could take the next four days off, so he might have been imagining it.

"Don't they have food in Brooklyn?" he asked, desperately trying to free his bag from the door before it spun closed.

Steve turned around slowly, not sure if he was the recipient of the statement.

"Yeah, you, Rogers," Bucky bit his lip as the handle of his bag got caught between the door and the frame, yanking him into the revolving's doors outer window. He smacked his palm against the glass, trying to get the attention of the people in the next pie-wedge, who were dead set on sending him around again. "It's stuck. You're going to have to turn around," he explained as he pointed toward the street, but the people kept pushing determinedly against the bar, pushing it a bit further and almost knocking Bucky off his feet.

And that was the final straw: the exhausted traveler could take no more. He pounded his fist against the divider and shouted, "I said it's stuck! You're not going anywhere. Just back off for a second and let me free my bag and you can go about your merry way."

The people looked less than thrilled, but slowly, eventually, took two steps backwards, sliding the door open just enough for Bucky to pull his bag free. "Thank you," he said drily to the people who then practically trampled him in their hurry to get to the check-in desk.

"I've always been small," Steve said.

Bucky turned to face the kid, confusion written all over his face. "What?"

"You asked if they had food in Brooklyn, and I'm telling you I've always been small for my age."

"You're not small for your age, you're tiny."

"I don't know why I bother talking to you," Steve sighed.

"It's just a fact, Rogers. I don't mean anything by it." Then he glanced around. "Where's your chaperone?"

"I'm legal now. Have been for five months."

"Well congratulations."

"Thank you."

"Your folks as petite as you?"

Steve shot Bucky a dark look for the non-sequitur, but the Californian shrugged in response. "It's just a question."

"No, actually," Steve said slowly. "Both were much taller than me."

"Were?"

"Yeah, they've both passed away. I live with my great-aunt Peggy now."

"I'm sorry to hear that, man." When Steve didn't respond, he barreled forward with all the tact in his arsenal. "She didn't want to watch you kick everyone else's ass at the Trials?"

Steve looked up sharply. "Not that it's any of your business, but she doesn't travel so well anymore. So she sent her other niece."

"Sharon."

Steve snorted in disgust. "You would remember that."

Bucky chose not to comment. "So…anyone else in your family your size?"

"What is this, twenty questions now?" Steve asked, his eyes flashing with an aggression that belied his size.

"Well you keep answering them. You must not hate it entirely."

"I was sick a lot as a kid," Steve responded curtly. "Anything else you want to know, nosey?"

"Nah, that's about it. Nice meeting you again, Steve."

Bucky clapped Rogers on the shoulder as he passed. Even though he hadn't done it full-force, Steve still swayed and nearly fell over.

"Nice to meet you too, jerk," Steve called back, rubbing his aching shoulder.

* * *

At ten AM the next morning, Bucky reported to the track where he met Sam Wilson, an athletic man in his thirties who was very attached to his whistle: he blew the damn thing for every little thing Bucky did wrong. They worked on starts, running form and finishes for what felt like hours, but was in reality only fifty minutes.

"I'm going to stick that whistle where the sun doesn't shine," Bucky grumbled as he took off for yet another 200-meter sprint.

"I heard that," Wilson shouted at Bucky. "Just for that, you can take a lap."

Bucky felt like his legs were going to separate themselves from the rest of his body, but he did as Sam ordered, crossing the finish line at full-speed then slowing to a jog as he continued around the track. That didn't stop him from muttering under his breath when he was on the other side of the track, out of Sam's earshot.

As he was rounding the far bend, he heard snickering and looked up to see Steve sitting in the stands. When he realized Bucky was staring at him, he grinned widely and waved.

"You should listen to Sam," Rogers yelled down to Bucky.

"Is he allowed to be here?" Bucky hollered in Sam's direction, without breaking stride, as he pointed into the bleachers.

"Since you're racing different events, yes. Plus, he already trained this morning."

Bucky sighed. "Of course he did."

"I love the fresh air," Steve threw his arms out and leaned his head back, letting the sun's rays wash over him. "Sick kid, remember? Plus, it's warm compared to Brooklyn."

"Unless he's distracting you," Sam continued and Bucky was forced to tune out Steve listing what he'd be wearing if he wanted to go outside back in Brooklyn, in order to hear his coach's words. "Then he would have to leave."

Bucky shrugged indifferently. "Whatever. He can stay. He might learn something." He turned the last corner of the track in time to see Sam rolling his eyes.

"Grab a quick drink and we'll keep at it," Wilson ordered, tossing Bucky's water bottle at him.

Barnes easily caught the bottle, tilted his head back, and squirted the water into his mouth like a waterfall. "Isn't my hour up yet?" he asked, as he sprayed water on his forehead.

"Almost," he paused and glanced down at his watch. "I'll make you a deal. You run this sprint like I asked you and you're done. You don't and you have three more laps. Sound good?"

"Do I have a choice?"

Sam shook his head. "Not really."

"Excellent." Bucky dropped his water bottle and fitted his feet into the blocks as Sam yelled "on your marks". Then Sam yelled "get set," and Bucky rose into the sprinter's stance, waiting while Sam walked around him, examining his form. When Wilson found nothing to correct, he took a few large steps back and fired the starter's gun. Bucky took off in perfect form, crossing the finish line 20.05 seconds later.

"Pump your arms more," Steve called from the stands as Bucky walked back toward Sam, hands over his head to open up his ribcage. "Cheek to cheek." Steve turned sideways in the rickety plastic seat and demonstrated the desired motion.

Bucky was dead set on ignoring Rogers but Sam interrupted, "I was just about to say the same thing."

Barnes spun around, a deep scowl on his face, his mouth automatically flying open in protest.

"Hold it there, tiger," Sam held up his hands, cutting off Bucky's upcoming rant. "You held up your end of the bargain so you're technically done until tomorrow…" he trailed off but stared expectantly at Barnes, as if he suspected the kid would decline the extra run, all the while hoping he'd agree.

"We can run it one more time," Bucky intoned mechanically, purposefully not looking over his shoulder at his unwelcome cheerleader.

"That's what I like to hear," Sam clapped Bucky on the shoulder. "On the line!"

This time, on top of everything else Sam had asked him to focus on, Bucky concentrated on moving his arms from his cheek to his hip as he sprinted down the track.

"19.93," Sam announced as he crossed the line.

"See?" Steve said knowingly, settling back into his chair.

"Alright smart aleck," Bucky turned to face his spectator. "Why don't you come down here and show me how it's done?"

"Are you challenging me to a race?" Steve clarified, his eyes glinting with excitement.

Bucky turned to Sam and threw up his hands theatrically. "I thought that was obvious."

"Heard that," Steve scowled as he hopped over the railing. Bucky would never admit it out loud, but his heart skipped a beat when he saw the frail athlete suspended in mid-air for a brief moment. No, not like that—he was afraid he was going to witness the great splintering of Steve's frail bird bones. Thankfully, Steve landed softly on the turf, in one piece, and on his toes no less.

"Show off."

"I did a lot of ballet and musical theater as a kid," Steve explained as he trotted onto the track. "Good strong indoor activities."

"Get on the line."

"Yes, Bucky," Steve shot him a mock salute.

"We'll do 100 meters so it's fair."

"Whatever helps you sleep at night."

"On your mark," Sam began, and they situated their feet on the starter's blocks. "Get set—"

The moment Sam fired the starter's pistol, Steve and Bucky took off down the track, tied neck and neck. A few meters from the end, Steve leapt forward and crossed the line before Bucky.

"That's cheating," Bucky panted, as he slowed to a stop.

"How?" Steve asked, a wide grin on his face. Bucky was pleased to see that Steve's breathing normalized a little more quickly this time: obviously his growth spurt was doing him good.

"I don't know, but it is…Run it again Rogers," he demanded when they'd both returned to their resting heart rates.

"Bucky, your hour is almost up," Sam called from the starter's line.

"We have time for one more race," Bucky snapped. "Back to Sam, same 100 meters."

"As you wish," Steve quipped, his smile never faltering, even as he assumed the racer's stance.

"On your marks, get set—"

This time, in the final few meters, Bucky managed to pull ahead and cross the line just a hair before Steve. He turned around to congratulate Steve on his race—not to gloat, _never_ to gloat—when he saw the muscles in Steve's face, especially the ones around his mouth, twitching.

"You got lucky," Steve said gracefully, while Bucky's mind whirled. Then the pieces clicked into place and he groaned loudly. "You let me win, didn't you?" He spun around to face Sam. "Didn't he?"

Sam lifted one shoulder noncommittally. "Your hour is officially over though, so I'm going to have to ask you to—"

"No, we need one more." Bucky reached out to grab the back of Steve's T-shirt, but the boy from Brooklyn danced out of his reach. "He has to race fair. One more time, for all the marbles!"

"Nope," the smaller boy skipped—yes, skipped—toward the exit. "Your hour is up and it's time for lunch. I'm hungry."

"You're something else, Rogers," Bucky muttered under his breath as he chased after Steve, calling a loose, "Thank you," over his shoulder to Sam.

* * *

Two days later, the athletes were put through a light lifting drill, mostly preventative and strengthening exercises that could be easily implemented at home. Most if not all of the athletes were training with their own strength coaches, but the USFTA required this session on the off-chance that some athletes couldn't afford the personal attention.

They woke up at a ridiculously early hour and stumbled into the weight room based on the events they were running. The short distance athletes had been grouped together for the most part, which meant Bucky and Morita would be running into Steve at some point. Dum-Dum and Dernier were training in another room at the same time, so they decided to part ways at the main hallway.

Just as they were walking away, Bucky saw Steve walk through the door, wearing two different colored crew socks: one red, one green. This was very unlike Steve, who usually matched his shirts with the small stripes on his sides of his shorts.

If he was being completely honest, Bucky had suspected something was up when he'd accidentally caught a glimpse of Steve's suitcase while rounding the gang up for dinner, and seen his clothes grouped by color. At the time he thought Steve might have just been a little OCD, but now he was starting to believe otherwise.

For anyone else, this wouldn't be a problem—in fact, on some people, wearing two different colored socks could be deemed fashionable—but Bucky had seen other kids pick on Steve for his size in the cafeteria and in the dorm. Their words were different than Bucky's lighthearted jabs—they were cruel barbs intended to hurt. Said group led by Hodge, who was still harboring a grudge over barely making the 100-m team as an alternate, had entered the weight room just before Bucky and Morita had arrived, and Bucky knew Steve would be in for it, unless something changed.

"Dummy, come back here!" Bucky hissed, sprinting down the hallway to catch up to his friend. They'd lived in such tight quarters that during camp last year that Bucky knew more about his friends that he probably wanted to, including but not limited to their shoe sizes. "Gimme your socks."

"Why?" Dum-Dum questioned loudly.

"Because." Bucky motioned frantically for Dugan to keep his voice down.

"Because why?" Dum-Dum said, this time in a stage whisper.

"I'll explain later. Hand 'em over."

"The things I do for you, Barnes," Dum-Dum bent down and shucked off his shoes. Then he peeled off socks, wadded them up and tossed them at Bucky.

"Thanks. I'll get you another pair."

Then he sprinted back to Steve, who Morita was serendipitously keeping from entering the weight room. "Switch me socks," he demanded without any other introduction.

"Hi, Bucky," Steve said airily, as if he didn't have a care in the world. "How are you today? Fine? Great. No, I am not giving you my socks."

"They're not the same color and Hodge is already in there."

Steve paled ever so slightly and looked down, in what looked to Bucky like shame.

"You're red-green colorblind, right? Big whoop. Nothing you can do about it." He stuffed the socks into Steve's hands. "Dum-Dum volunteered to swap with you. So hop to it."

Steve dropped onto his rear with a bony clunk and Barnes winced. The smaller man apparently hadn't harmed himself for he hurriedly pulled off his socks and slipped on Dum-Dum's, handing his over to Bucky.

"You might not be done growing yet, with big feet like that," Bucky commented as Steve began lacing up his shoes. "Wash 'em before you bring them back."

He turned to head back to Dum-Dum to give him Steve's socks, but Rogers caught his ankle, keeping him from leaving. "Thanks," he whispered, as he rose to his feet.

"Welcome, squirt."

"Don't ever call me that again."

"Okay, Bigfoot."

"I hate you."

* * *

One year after that, Bucky flashed his Team USA ID and crept into the stadium to watch his friend compete in the 100-meter dash finals. The stadium was completely packed with people from all walks of life. There were fans in uniforms, fans covered in body or face paint, fans waving flags or large posters and more. The support oozing from the stands was amazing, and unlike anything Bucky had ever felt before.

The loud music stopped, mid-verse and the announcers stated that the finals were about to begin. On the track, the runners finished their warm-ups and made their way over to the starting line as the crowd broke into loud cheers, whether names or anthems or chants.

"C'mon Rogers," Bucky muttered, watching his skinny friend line up in the third position. Even though Steve was still smaller than the rest of the competitors, he'd grown a few more inches over the last six months and had been able to pack on some mildly impressive muscle, so he no longer looked like a stiff breeze could knock him over.

They'd really hit it off during the rest of Training Week and Bucky had invited Steve to spend a week or two at his family's home in Valencia, so he wouldn't have to put up with the Brooklyn winter. Their friendship only grew from there, to the point where Bucky was one of the first people who knew Steve'd been accepted to the prestigious Auburndale Art School (because if everything else Steve'd had to deal with wasn't enough, he had also had to repeat the second grade, because he had missed too many days due to illness). Conversely, Steve had been one of the first people Bucky had called after his club football team won a National Championship (even though Steve and his mom had been streaming the game online and already knew the outcome), and who he'd seriously talked to about a fiery red-head named Natasha he'd met while volunteering at a summer camp. Even though they lived on opposite sides of the States, they had each other's backs.

Steve had run well over the last day, not always taking first, but doing enough to get into the final heat. All the Americans had been healthy, meaning Hodge would not be competing, a fact that gave no small joy to either Bucky or Steve. Morita, the third place finisher from the Trials, had also made the 100-meter finals and was tapping fists with Steve for luck. One of the track officials saw this and stepped between them so Morita hurried down to his sixth position.

The announcer began speaking, but the words were nothing more than a buzzing in Bucky's head as he gripped the railing, more nervous than he should be.

Then, the pistol sounded and Steve took off, his feet effortlessly leaving the blocks. Even after all his sessions with Sam, he still ran like his life depended on it, like he was being chased by muggers; given his old size and everyone's propensity to tease him about it, Bucky realized that might not be that far from the truth.

Then, Steve was third, having just overtaken Morita.

Second, streaming past Switzerland's Arnim Zola.

Then it was just him and Germany's Johan Schmidt. Just like he had with Bucky, he poured on the speed for the last few meters, edging past Schmidt to cross the line first, a photo finish.

The crowd roared and Bucky pumped the air with his fist, his chest swelling with pride.

Steve glanced around, to gauge his reaction by everyone's finish, finally forcing himself to look up at the scoreboard to see his name at the top, right next to an American flag. Steve rubbed his face with his hands, as if he himself couldn't believe he'd won, then he straightened up, threw back his head and flung out his arms, tears of joy streaming out of his eyes. Wherever they were, Bucky hoped Steve's parents were watching.

Steve stood like that for a moment longer, then, just as the camera crew began swarming him, he jumped excitedly, spinning around in mid-air and pumping both fists. He ran over to his coach, an army man named Phillips, who patted Steve on the back, a proud grin on his face. (Bucky would later learn from Steve that this was the most affectionate the stodgy man was…ever.)

The American section of the audience was screaming at him, waving the flag wildly. Steve walked quickly over and embraced his Aunt Peggy and his cousin Sharon, who were seated in the first row. Aunt Peggy took his face in her hands and nodded proudly, tears in her own eyes. Then she took the flag Sharon was holding and handed it to Steve, who gratefully accepted and raised it high above his head.

"Mr. Barnes," Maria Hill said from behind him, tapping his shoulder and startling him. "Coach Coulson is looking for you in the locker room."

"Okay. Tell him I'm on my way."

Just then, the rest of the Team USA sprinted past Bucky on the way to congratulate their teammates. Morita, who had finished third and was being given a flag of his own, let out a loud "Wahoo!" before he allowed himself to be drawn by the pack down toward the American section.

Steve turned, and, just before his teammates mobbed him, made eye contact with Bucky, who interlocked his hands and shook them above his head before dramatically bowing to the champion. The smile that was already threatening to split Rogers' face in half grew by a factor of ten and he shot Bucky a thumbs-up and mouthed, "Good luck!"

At that moment, Hill grabbed Bucky by the shoulder and lead him forcibly to the exit. "You need to leave now, or you'll be late for warm-ups."

"Yes, Maria," he replied as he pulled out of her grip and jogged toward the team locker room of his own volition, mentally switching gears to focus on his own upcoming race.

* * *

 **Thanks for reading! I'd love to know what you thought!**


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